Assurances Ardor

Trustworthy, Photo by BradensEye featuring Waldfriedhof Zehlendorf

Safeguards are savior bonds. It’s those unplanned prized instances where you’re plucked from the frazzle of caca you can’t seem to push out of you. If you’ve ever been mentally to physically lost or fully thwacked clear off your contentment or positivity posture you’re likely aligned with the feeling of hoping for a sign of support to settle your doubts. When the stirrings get rough it’s so nice to receive a palliative promise from any angle to power you through until your composure is renewed. Today is a Friyay where many are honoring a restoration of sorts. While it’s incredibly (un)pleasant to refer to any span of intended sunshine with a blatant misnomer proclaiming passionate greatness, the Christ crowd surely has itself packed with pinnacles of such sorrowful switchbacks begging their renaissance amends. Buffering any acrimony with assurances ardor is blessed intervention.

The only thing predictable about life is its unpredictability. ~Remy by Patton Oswalt, Ratatouille

I think the very human arc of pairing the holiness of happy humoring within the punitive parade of penance must reach to the past of our neanderthal shenanigans. We’re quite a quixotic bunch for heralding punishment and attributing ness inside the same vein. Be that as it is, it simply bumps my conviction towards necessary cheerleading we as people deserve. I declare that it’s the indistinguishable attitude that the old crucifixion dude was encouraging. If you let the divinity of Godly stuff be with you, you’re more inclined to rise from the rubble of your various troubles. Whether you’re soaring on static to new heights, coasting along known to unfamiliar roads, or merely spreading wonderful words and then whammo, life takes a bite out of you, this includes certifying the coverage of all ounces of optimism coming your way. Yet, frankly, most of us can attest that faith doesn’t always fall in an obvious manner.

Often, all I’m looking for in a day is the deftness of a tiny string of confidences to permit me to stay clung to the belief that I’m exactly right where I am supposed to be in those one-thousand four-hundred forty minutes that equate to another twenty-four hours down my drain of existence. It might be a few series of random texts out of the blue in a single week from multiple male friends across the USA checking in on my skin cancer health or a favorite VIP…